


mercutio dies again

by benvoliio



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Gen, agaaaain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 23:03:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benvoliio/pseuds/benvoliio
Summary: not Tybalt's POV, for once! I wrote this at like 2am and proofread it exactly once soooo





	mercutio dies again

Everyone was looking at him. Even Tybalt—who until moments ago had been happily participating in their brawl, their little game—was staring. What for? He’d been scratched, a little, but it had barely felt like anything. Just a touch of a blade. Mercutio lowered his sword.

“What?”

“What?” Benvolio repeated, “Art- Art thou hurt?”

“Ay,”

A pit of unease was forming in his chest. A slight hit didn’t usually stop the action like this.

“Ay, a scratch, a scratch.” He laughed it off, and noticed a slight ache where he’d felt the blade graze his skin. The uneasy tension in his chest grew. Perhaps he should get it looked at. “Marry, ‘tis enough. Where is my page?—Go, villain, fetch a surgeon”

“Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much.” Romeo comforted. The relief in his voice at Mercutio’s lighthearted assurances was clear.

Mercutio glanced back at Tybalt. Benvolio and Romeo had visibly relaxed, but Tybalt hadn’t moved or said a word. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword and his chest was rising and falling far faster than warranted from their scuffle, although his shoulders were full of tension. Mercutio’s brow furrowed in confusion. Best to lighten the mood, this was far too serious for such a small injury.

“No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,” he joked, “but—”

Another ache, sharper this time, made him pause. He brushed his fingers across his side and felt his breath hitch when they came away wetter and redder than expected. A lot of blood for so little pain. But probably nothing to worry about.

“—But ’tis enough. ’Twill serve.”

Benvolio was frowning deeply again. Mercutio felt nervous tendrils wrap themselves around his lungs and made another attempt at a joke, trying to mask the uncertainty in his voice.

“Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.”

He laughed, but it came out a little too harsh. Tybalt still had not relaxed, Mercutio had a creeping feeling his now trembling hands had felt something Mercutio himself had missed. The skittering of Tybalt’s fluttering blade against the cobblestones drew his attention. That bloodstain really went too far up the blade for such a little hit. For such a small, painless scratch. A slight, tiny, insignificant papercut. Why was everyone so nervous? Why was everyone beginning to think that perhaps something had gone terribly wrong, why were they now beginning to feel the ache in their side grow more and more intense as the seconds slipped past? Why were their hands—his hands—shaking so much? Mercutio fought for air from the web of panic his chest had become. Continue the ruse. It was okay, he was okay, it was going to be fine. Nothing that bad could possibly happen. He’d get patched up. Don’t let them find out how bad it might be, it’d only worry his friends unnecessarily. He made eye contact with Romeo and grinned.

“I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.”

That didn’t work. Too breathless, too obvious, and even oblivious, optimistic Romeo was now beginning to sense something was wrong. Words began to spill out in a melodramatic rush.

“A plague o’ both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat,” He looked at Tybalt, “to scratch a man to death! A braggart, a rogue—”

Panic and anger were leaking through the cracks in his facade now, he tried to step forward but stumbled instead and he couldn’t seem to stop his whole body from shaking or the icy burning spreading around his wound. He was fine. He had to convince them he was fine.

“A villain that fights by the book of arithmetic!” It wasn’t that bad; it was absolutely that bad. He was fine; he was so obviously and terrifyingly not fine. He was dying, maybe, he was possibly slightly dying which was so unthinkable and yet was potentially happening, now, to him. He turned to Romeo again.

“Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.”

“I thought all for the best,” Came the shaky reply. That fool. He stumbled towards Benvolio, clutching his side in a manner that the dwindling part of him not overtaken by panic and the ironic reality of his masquerade hoped was comedic.

“Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me. I have it, and soundly, too. Your houses!”  He looked around. Too much. Tears were welling in Romeo’s eyes, and Tybalt’s were still wide and full of horror, as if he was already looking at a dead man or a ghost. Benvolio’s arms were around him, supporting him, but he could hear his heart thundering. He staggered backwards, pulling Benvolio away from the bloodstained square.

Sinking into the shadowed doorway of a building around the corner, Mercutio could hear Benvolio murmuring encouragement and comfort, but he could also feel the energy seeping out of his muscles. His hand slipped heavily from the wound and he found himself unable to lift it again. His breaths came quick and shallow. His side felt like it was on fire.  _ Does it hurt?  _ Benvolio asked, voice thick with tears.  _ No,  _ he responded.  _ No, I’m fine. A scratch.  _ A lie, and an obvious one at that. But it would have to do. After everything, he was at loss for words. Words couldn’t help him now, anyway. Dark static overtook his vision and he felt no more.


End file.
